


Water in the Desert

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:03:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things they just need, like water in the desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water in the Desert

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spnkink_meme.

Dean begs for it sometimes. Oh, not with words—Dean refuses to beg like that even when Sam’s spent the last three hours fingering his ass without letting him come—but Dean has never really needed words to communicate.

Dean begs with his eyes, and the cocky tilt of his head, and the way he keeps drawing attention to his slutty, slutty mouth—sucking on beer bottles and pens and pieces of candy until Sam’s dick is aching with need and he can barely see anything else. He’s warned Dean time and time again about riling him up like this, because it isn’t going to end pretty, but Dean just gives him that smug, coy smile and bites down on his lower lip, plumping it further.

Sam resists every time—and not out of any do-gooder impulse to spare his brother some pain. It would actually be easier on Dean if Sam folded as soon as he noticed, would leave enough of his higher thought functions intact to temper the burning hunger. Sam resists because tempered isn’t what Dean wants.

Isn’t what Sam wants either, if he’s honest with himself.

There’s a simmering, sweltering tension between them, stretched out thin like a leather cord, and even though it’s the dead of winter in North Dakota Sam finds the back of his neck damp with sweat. Dean feels the heat as well, stripping off his coat and outer layers as soon as they hit the bar to reveal a moss t-shirt gone olive-dark at the small of his back. The hollow of his throat glistens a little, salty-slick, as he tosses back beer after beer.

Dean’s really working it tonight—not just the lips, but the whole package: tongue and teeth and the long line of his throat, which Sam’s cock remembers in a greedy, visceral way. His lips curl over the mouths of brown glass bottles, his tongue flicks out to delve inside the rims—gives that little twist Sam is so fond of. He watches Sam while he does it, too, intent and hungry and determined, and when Sam feels a low kick in his belly he understands that this is it. The game ends tonight.

It isn’t until Dean is midway through his fifth beer that he pushes his chair back and stands. “Gotta make room,” he announces, mouth curving obscenely around the words.

His eyes are giving that familiar come-hither look that Sam recognizes from so many times before, all challenge and no give, and the heat between them ripples like the air over desert tarmac. Dean stands there long enough for Sam to note the trail of his brother's tongue over his bottom lip—not true hesitation, but calculated taunt—and then turns and makes his sauntering way off to the bathroom.

Sam forces himself to wait a full minute before following.

This place isn’t big enough for stalls—boasts just the single room with a sink and a toilet—and Sam slips inside and locks the door behind him. Dean is at the sink, leaning toward the mirror and—Sam blinks—and smearing something that looks like lipstick on his lips. It isn’t, though, doesn’t paint his lips but highlights them, coats them with a glossy sheen that makes several of Sam’s higher brain functions fizzle out.

“You cockteasing son of a bitch,” he breathes.

Dean’s eyes flick up to meet his in the mirror and he smirks, smacking his lips together and capping the tube.

“How long’ve you been doing that?” Sam demands. He steps closer, drawn toward his brother like lead filings toward a magnet.

“Couple of weeks,” Dean answers casually. Sam watches his lips move in the mirror, plump and asking for it, and he’s done talking.

Dean turns with barely any prodding, going down to his knees with a slight pressure on one shoulder, and instantly starts opening up Sam’s buckle. Sam lets his brother do that work, lets him take the lead, because they both know that this isn’t about who starts it. It’s about what happens once they’re both shut in together like two firebrands in a haystack.

Finally, Sam’s pants are down around his ankles and his brother's breath is panting across the swollen head of his cock. It twitches in the hot breeze, leaking out precome, and Dean is watching with a ravenous expression that would terrify a weaker man. Sam reaches out, trying to get a grip on his brother’s too-short hair, and drags him in.

There’s no finesse to it. Just Dean’s hot, plush mouth and his clever tongue and the brief, light scrape of teeth that leaves the whole experience skirting the line between pain and pleasure.

Sam gives up on his brother’s hair, just like he always does, and grips his face instead. He knows he’s bruising, fingers digging in to keep Dean still while he feeds him his cock, but that’s the whole point of the game and neither of them cares. Truth be told, Sam’s pleasure spikes a little at the reddened flesh that’s revealed when he adjusts his grip—only thing better than making the marks is looking at them after, when they’re still fresh enough to be hot to the touch.

His other hand goes around the back of Dean’s head, leaving his brother with nowhere to go as Sam’s cock slip-slides down into his throat and wedges his airway shut.

Dean has never actually _tried_ to go anywhere, not once in all the times they’ve done this, but Sam still can’t quite believe how docile his larger than life, swaggering brother is when offered a little cock and a lot of force—or maybe Sam has that the wrong way around. He isn’t sure of anything when it gets to this point, too lost in the feverish haze to understand anything but how fucking pretty and wet Dean’s mouth is.

He lets go of even that, willing the descent from calculated seduction to basic, primal need.

It’s a short fall—they live their lives on the edge of civilization anyway—and Sam fetches up with a rough grunt and begins to pump his hips. He fucks his brother’s mouth like it belongs to him, like he owns the right to this—and he does. Dean gives him the right every time he gets that glint in his eyes. He hands himself over to Sam and waits for Sam to give them both what they need.

Sam bucks, screwing his hips around like he’s trying to get Dean to take everything inside—not just Sam’s cock, but his rage and his desire and this consuming, possessive hunger that roars through them both. The air he sucks into his lungs feels heated, as though it has passed through a brushfire, and the phantom sting of smoke makes him thrust harder.

It hurts, his cock moving so fast and rough through his brother’s mouth that it’ll still be sore tomorrow, that Dean will barely be able to talk, but Sam isn’t slowing and Dean is actually struggling to open his jaw wider, to take more. Sam fucks his brother’s throat until he can’t stand anymore, until his cock has been scraped raw by the friction, and then yanks out.

Dean makes a low, moaning protest, chasing after him until Sam gets a steadying hand on his shoulder and holds him there. His chin is shining—all sloppy spit—and his lips are puffy and split in places. Sam fits his palm to his brother’s forehead, tilting Dean’s head back, and Dean lets him, opens his mouth up wide like a baby bird.

It takes two quick strokes of Sam’s hand and he’s coming, cresting on a wave of burning ash, and his come splatters out to stripe his brother’s upturned face. Some of it lands in Dean’s mouth, on his waiting tongue, but Sam isn’t aiming because that isn’t the point. Dean will get his taste in a moment, but this part of the game _(ritual now, burnt down to its bones)_ is about staking claim. It’s about making sure Dean reeks of sex when they leave this room, about showing off just how completely he belongs with Sam.

In the interest of that, and because he knows Dean needs it, Sam lets his cock spurt where it will. His brother ends up with come streaking his face in messy strings, and clumped in his eyelashes, and smeared in his hair. A fat, stray drop hits the bottom of his chin and rolls down his neck.

Finally, when Sam is spent and panting, Dean surges forward again and catches Sam’s softening dick in his bruised, mistreated mouth. He suckles Sam clean—gentling now, coming down from the heights—and Sam pets his brother’s hair and echoes him. He can still feel the edge of a hot wind whipping past, but it’s already fading. It drops off even more when he falls to his own knees to lick Dean’s face clean, leaving them both becalmed and the wild hunger sated.

For now.

“I want ice cream,” Dean rasps as Sam licks come from one of his eyelids. “Think you fucked the skin off the back of my throat this time.”

Sam pauses in his cleaning long enough to respond, “Then stop baiting me.”

But that isn’t the way this works, and they both know it. Dean, frustrating as he can be, doesn’t push now, instead resting his hands on Sam’s waist and thumbing at the skin beneath his shirt.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks. The words sound like they’re scraping his throat raw, but a little pain has never been enough to shut Dean up.

Laughing a little at his brother’s boldness, Sam moves down and nips at the dripping line of come on Dean’s throat.

“Nowhere,” he answers. “Nowhere at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was:
> 
>  **Sam/Dean, facefucking.** Hard and brutal, but please don't make Dean puke because of it. Bonus facial would be brilliant.


End file.
